Family Night Revisited
by Turrislucidus
Summary: Willy Wonka visits Charlie's school. If that sentence sounds familiar, it is. This is a re-telling of Piscaria's story "Family Night", from Mr. Willy Wonka's point of view.
1. Factory

_Author's Note: If you've read Piscaria's fanfic_ Family Night, _and—as many details as are in that, that are not in this—I recommend you do, you'll recognize that this story, is that story, re-told from Willy Wonka's point of view. My thanks to Piscaria for allowing this use of her work. In the places I have included her work directly, I have used italics._

* * *

The trouble with concentration, is it's so concentrating. It shuts out everything else. Even things you'd like let in. Sitting cross-legged in the Inventing Room, as I often am, I should have heard Charlie let himself in, but I was concentrating on sweetness ratios, so I missed it, and the Oompa-Loompas, who could've—gosh darn it—warned me, didn't.

When I finally heard Charlie say my name—for, I could tell, not the first time—I jumped like I'd been shot, dropping the notebook I'd been jotting notes in.

 _"_ _Charlie!"_ I _said, "What are you doing here?"_

Meh. That's not what I meant, but I was caught off-guard. I don't mind Charlie being here. Charlie is welcome here, but despite the key I've given him, he must not believe that if he's pussy-footing around like this. Well, he only moved in a month ago. I'll bring up the problem.

 _"_ _Shouldn't you be doing your homework?"_

There. His icky school. If it weren't for that, he'd have come with me when I came here tonight. Charlie wasted no time telling me he'd finished that nuisance early, and his mother had thus sprung him so he could come find me. Fantabulous! Pocketing my notebook and scooping up my walking-stick, I stood up.

 _"_ _Let me show you what I'm working on!"_

Nope. No interest in that. The boy was consumed with something else. Something else he wanted to ask me, and wasn't that odd. Charlie should have the world, but he rarely asked for anything. His humility is one of the reasons I chose him. With all that would lie at his feet one day, he'd need it to keep his balance.

 _"_ _Is there something you need?"_

Charlie answered no, but he meant yes. And I'd brought up the subject myself, when I'd brought up homework. His icky school, he told me, was having some so-called 'Family Night' tomorrow. My jaw clenched, but you don't notice that unless you're looking for it, and I kept my voice as up-beat as I could. No doubt the tyke wanted to play hooky when it came to _my_ school. Tomorrow was chocolate lesson night. If I were Charlie, I'd skip the other, but Mrs. Bucket would never allow that. I'd best get this out, before I crush my walking-stick.

 _"_ _Well, if you need to skip your chocolate lesson, I understand."_ I don't. _"School must come first, after all."_ I smacked my lips, but the bad taste was only in my head, and not in my mouth.

 _"_ _No," said Charlie, "that's not what I meant."_

 _"_ _Then what—"_

And that's another thing I love about Charlie. He surprises me. He surprises me because he sees possibilities for me that _I_ don't see for me. He wanted to ask if I'd go with him. Go _with_ him. As if I could deal with leaving the Factory. As if I could deal with being in close proximity to people I don't know. As if I could deal with the ghosts of tortures bound to re-surface in a… school environment. The smell of the cleaners, mixed with the smell of the dried sweat, and the floor wax, and the moldy lockers; those smells, that permeate the halls, ubiquitous to all schools, would be all it would take…

I lifted my head. Time was ticking. I opened my mouth. Closed it. The Oompa-Loompas were grinning like hyenas—you never really know with them, they come from a _very_ hostile jungle, and I think they rather enjoy the kill now and again… I had to get outta this. The look on Charlie's face wasn't helping.

 _"_ _You want me to come with you?"_

Not much of a stall, but I was thinking.

 _Charlie nodded. "It wouldn't take very long," he said. "You'd still be able to get some work done that evening…"_

Not likely.

"… _All you'd have to do is come and see my school, and meet my teacher, and look at the project I've been working on."_

 _"Well that . . . that's great," I said._ Not _. "But I'm sure that your…_ ppa, pa—"

 _"I already asked them," Charlie said. "Mum said it was okay."_

And there you have it. Mum said it was okay. That 'P' word… What good are they? Mum should know I'd rather take off my gloves than go to that school. She should be backing me up, not getting Charlie's hopes up. I'm doing _my_ part keeping the peace with her. I'm letting her let him go to that goofy place. She should be keeping the peace with me.

Maybe she was. Charlie was biting his lip and fidgeting as if his hopes weren't up. As if he'd been primed for disappointment. That thought stung a little, and I began to waver. Charlie must have sensed that, because he didn't want to let it go. He mentioned they'd be serving cookies. Would I leave my Factory for a cookie? I love that Charlie thinks so. But wait! There's more! Not everyone there would be a Mum or Dad. There'd be a grandma, and an uncle. And all his classmates. And his teacher. And I'd get—his word—to meet his teacher.

 _"_ _And what would I be?"_

 _"You're my . . ." Charlie hesitated, unsure, really, what he should call Mr. Wonka, even in his own mind. "You're my other teacher," he said finally. "And my friend."_

I leaned against the Gobstopper tank. This could all be a trick, but there it was. Charlie had used the 'f' word— friend. I might have to go. Not going would not be doing something every normal grown-up does without a thought, and as little as I care about 'normal' and 'grown-up', I do care about 'friend'. I decided in an instant. A friend would go, and so I will. I waited till Charlie dared to look up again, and gave him the good news. Cookies already covered, he was out of enticements.

 _"_ _Hey! What a good idea._ I'll go. _"_

 _"_ _Really?" Charlie breathed._

 _"_ _Of course!"_

Having already floored the dear boy by agreeing to go, I put a confirming hand on his shoulder. Touching is creepy, but it makes a point, and I don't mind it so much if I'm the one doing it. To make it more real, I talked about the outing as if it were happening. I told him I was looking forward to doing my part to straighten out his teacher, should I discover she was teaching him the wrong things. That, I think, is when Charlie realized I was gonna go as myself. And started wondering if this was such a good idea after all. But having made up my mind, I wasn't gonna change it now.

Before he could change _his_ mind, I cut short a few _"But Mr. Wonka…"_ s, got the details, and hustled Charlie from the room, making sure an Oompa-Loompa saw him safely back to the Chocolate Room. A month is not a lot of time to learn this Factory, and Charlie was probably giddy.

* * *

I had a lovely time at dinner next evening. Stupendous. Every one in that little house was so nervous, I needn't bother. Which was good, because even if I were, I couldn't show it. Charlie's second thoughts were so full blown by now, they could've taken a seat at the table. If I'd added any of my nerves to that, there'd have been a substitution. And I couldn't have that now, could I? More than that, Mrs. Bucket had pleased me. I'd suggested taking the Great Glass Elevator, and against Charlie's slumped shoulders and suggestion we walk, she'd backed me to the hilt. Doing that let me know this was all Charlie's idea, against her better judgement. It was gratifying to know we were on the same page, and even better to know I could surprise her. And she calls me Willy. I soooo prefer that.

 _"Now Willy," … "Make sure you ask how Charlie's doing in arithmetic. We've been giving him extra help in the evenings, but his last test showed some room for improvement."_

 _"Arithmetic,"_ I _said. "Got it."_

 _"And ask if there's anything he needs to work on," Mr. Bucket reminded_ me _. "And find out if he's getting along with the other children."_

Getting along with the other children. To keep from rolling my eyes, I thought of braces.

 _"Work on. Kids. I've got it."_

 _"And for God's sake," Grandpa George grumbled from the bed, "Don't wear that ridiculous hat."_

Ridiculous HAT! I felt a fit of the giggles. What a ridiculous thing to say! Grandpa George is so weird. Giggles would only encourage him. I ignored him instead, but I could see that all these pa… ppaa… you know, tasks, being handed to me, was taking its toll on Charlie. They're not really my thing, and he could see that now. He could see that he didn't want them to _be_ my thing. I popped up from the table, and popped on my anything-but-ridiculous hat, and not-ridiculous-at-all, coat.

 _"_ _Never miss a chance to make an entrance, Charlie," I said… "Are you ready?"_

 _"We don't really have to be early," he said, "They expect people to keep trickling in all evening."_

 _"_ _Even so…"_

 _"Yeah," Charlie said, wishing_ , I could tell, _that he wasn't. "I'm ready."_

 _"Then let's boogie!"_

The evening had taken on a luster. Tonight, I was me being more me than usual.

* * *

 _I do not own_ Family Night, _or_ Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended._


	2. School

_My thanks to Piscaria for allowing this use of her work. In the places I have included her work directly, I have used italics._

* * *

Up and Out. I let Charlie push the button. I love the Great Glass Elevator, and I love—why else would I make it out of glass?—to sightsee: my Factory, for one, but the world, for another. I'm out in this thing, doing that thing, more often than the Buckets would credit… just not over _this_ town, and not so often—or where—people would notice. Cultivating a reputation as a recluse as I am, that would be silly. So I was far more comfortable now than Charlie imagined, but Charlie wasn't comfortable at all. Charlie was silent. The pallor of his face was approaching mine, with not the glimmer of a smile anywhere. That would never do!

To cheer him, I took the Great Glass Elevator higher than was necessary. Up and up we went. The twinkling lights of the town below began to look like constellations, the people lost in the gaps between the stars. It was peaceful, and convenient. His nearby school was one of the stars, and we could watch it. When we were high enough, I took up a hover, the better to enjoy it. We shared a smile when Charlie figured out we wouldn't be as early as he'd _thought_ we'd be. That suited me, too.

Nothing was said, but after a while we agreed it was time to get with the program. I set the Elevator back in motion, letting it drop gently onto the withered grass of Charlie's schoolyard. There were myriad buttons for manual control like this, and Charlie watched me press them as he indicated where he'd like me to land. Someday, seeing this, Charlie would connect the dots that Up and Out is a programmed shortcut—like an autopilot—and used often, but as preoccupied as he was, that wouldn't be tonight. I was pensive myself, as I wondered if he'd ask me why, if I could land this thing so delicately, I had crashed it into his house.

Charlie didn't ask. The commotion spared me. The drab school, the crowd of kids and not-kids, the pointing and the whispering… It was harder on him than it was on me. I've been through situations like this before. Charlie hung back as the doors opened, and I took the lead. Why not? With my snazzy top hat, sweeping bouclé coat, and dark goggles, I was hands down the winner of the best dressed contest.

The whispers only worsened. The way to unravel a mystery is to hook into it, and the claws were out.

"That's _Willy Wonka?"_

Yeah, genius, the one and only. Not that the hat, or the brooch, or hey! the flying glass elevator give it away. I think there's still room for doubt.

So much for the words. The tone irked me as well. My jaw set, the corners of my mouth tightened, pulling my lips into a line as thin as my narrowed eyes. For the briefest second, I was reminded of Charlie's, 'Really?' on the day of the tour, but hearing the next comment, I brushed that thought aside.

" _It must be, he's with that Bucket kid."_

'That Bucket kid'. That Bucket kid is worth sixty billion of you, ya twerpy little twit. Charlie had inched closer under the barrage, and I put my arm around his shoulders. He's with _me_.

" _You'll have to get used to this I'm afraid."_

Charlie glanced up at me and nodded. I dropped my arm, and we pushed our way through the rubes to the school. It's refreshing how useful a gesture from my walking-stick can be, when a crowd needs parting. Then, we were in, and yup, there it was… hitting me like a wave. That wretched school smell. Yeck. I hate that smell. Joining the smell was the clang of an unseen locker closing, and didn't that just put a twist in my gut. Could we escape this?

" _Which way to your classroom?"_

" _It's this way."_

Charlie started down the corridor, and in the next minute, he took my mind off my senses. He gave me a tour! I almost giggled, but as tense as he was, I thought he might not appreciate the levity. Worse, he might think I was losing it. But I was thinking of my Factory, and compared with it, these rooms weren't even on the map.

Charlie pointed out the gymnasium, and to participate, I pointed out that when I was as short as him—sans chapeau—I hated P.E. It's not P.C. to hate P.E., but what do I care? It's the source of the dried sweat smell. We passed the cafeteria, where, Charlie shared, they'd set out the juice and cookies I knew we'd never taste, later. Something else not to care about.

The tour ended at Charlie's classroom. He was still fretting, but I was thinking Cherry Street. I'd been thinking it all day, and most of last night. Cherry Street, Cherry Street, Cherry Street. At Cherry Street, all day, people I'd never met before came and went, in and out, of my shop. And that was fine, because that's what I wanted them to do. It's true, I could hide out in the back, and mostly did, but not always. Sometimes, seeing the delight on the people's faces when they tried my newest creation was worth the agony. This would be like that.

We stepped inside. I'd suspected such, but now I knew for sure. Charlie had discussed my accompanying him with no one. There were no cameras, no press, no wave of people jockeying for position to have a word. Only an eerie silence at seeing the exceedingly unexpected. I glanced down at Charlie, not sure how I felt—relived he could keep a secret, or disappointed he had so little faith in me—but intimidated by the silence, Charlie was looking at the carpet, and didn't see.

In the hush, his teacher did her job. She walked over and greeted us.

 _"Why Charlie!" she said. "I'm so glad you made it. …And who is this?"_

 _Charlie beamed at her, grateful she was making things so normal._

" _This is Mr. Wonka. Mr. Wonka, this is my teacher, Mrs. Hoffsteader."_

 _"Mr. Wonka, I've heard so much about you."_

Yada, yada, yada, who here hasn't? Naturally, she extended her hand for me to shake. I wasn't particularly in the mood. If I did nothing, maybe it would go away. I, behind my trusty dark goggles, was sizing up the others. Then I realized Charlie was holding his breath. My attention went back to the still there hand, her expectant, beginning to cloud over face, and Charlie's poised to be disappointed one. Disappointed. I took her hand in mine, tightened my fingers, then dropped her mitt as if scalded. Bleck! But it was good enough. Charlie was breathing again. Time to beat-feet before the chit-chat.

Alas! As I feared, the contact made her bold. Before we could move, she proceeded to reach into my head, and tell me how I felt.

 _"You must be awfully proud of Charlie."_

Heavens to Betsy, the insight! A recluse… Inviting a family in to live with him? Showing up here? That'd be the conclusion I'd come to. Is this the caliber of discernment I can expect from this establishment? My fears are allayed! This woman misses nothing! Charlie should spend every waking moment in these halls! I checked to see if Charlie's thinking was running along my lines, only to find him blushing. I cocked my head. Does he not know? The banal always sends me into fits, but maybe… If Charlie _doesn't_ know, he should… but in a way that won't tax his humility.

 _"Yes, I am proud of him. His first batch of licorice didn't turn out as well as I would like, but he made some passable fudge last week. Well done, Charlie!"_

Before she could perpetrate more abuse, I legged it. There is not a child alive, who has tasted my confections, or heard about them, who does not want to be my friend, and as this room is full of children, I'm feeling pretty good. Grown-ups mostly want to like me too, because not liking me wouldn't sit well with their children, but they're not as reliable—some of them are jealous—and for the most part, I don't trust them.

Sure enough, I hadn't gone six feet before a child approached.

 _"My name is Agnes Newt," she said. "Did you bring any candy with you?"_

And _that_ girl, has broken the code: Ask, and ye shall receive. But you mustn't be faint of heart, and most of the effort is up to you. I gave her a demonstration.

 _"Why?… Did you think that just because I happen to make the most wonderfully_ whipple-scrumptious _chocolate in the world, that I would make it a habit to fill up my pockets with it, just in case I meet any greedy children?"_

'No' she answered, and stepped back, but the correct answer is 'yes', and with a smile, I pulled the chocolate bars I'd spent the morning shrinking with the Television Chocolate machine out of my pockets, and handed them around. First to her—she was the brave one—and then to the other children who stepped up. With the positive result, in the face of resistance, next time I hope she'll answer 'maybe', or even better, 'yes', and stand her ground.

It was going well, these children made an ideal test group for the process—Charlie had said the teleported bar tasted great when he tried it, but he may have been pulling my leg—until I met with a Very Important Medical Journal, in the form of a father. I've run into this before. It's a rhetorical fallacy, the appeal to authority, and my own father used it on me all the time. And for the same reason this yahoo was using it… to deny his child candy. He wasn't hardcore like my dad, no candy at all, he only objected to chocolate after dinner—claimed it was bad for your digestion—and I'd have objected to his objections more if they'd been more serious, but there _was_ a bit of a melt-down. No offense to medical journals, but when I'm in the room, I'm the authority on chocolate.

Dr. Crawford, that was the medical journal quoter's name, didn't want to accept that. He didn't want to accept any of my other accomplishments either, though I was happy to list them for him. In front of everyone there, I don't need to add. The more things I listed, the more belligerent he became. Family Night suddenly—an unexpected bonus—became exhilarating. The bozo boasted he is a pediatrician. My dad is a dentist. In addition to their love of quoting journals, they share the medical profession. I felt like I was saying these things to my dad, something I don't see myself actually doing. The only time I'd seriously sassed my dad hadn't worked out so well, but this was shaking out splendidly.

Sigh. All good things must come to an end, and too soon, that was the fate of this delightful diversion. We were here after all, Frau Lehrerin reminded us, for the children. I wasn't even a quarter of the way through the litany—gee, I was just getting warmed up—when Mrs. Hoffsteader turned off the spotlight I'd become, by starting the proceedings. Probably for the best, I'd say. Soonest started, soonest ended! I couldn't have been happier. Crawford was choking on it. Really. Arguing after dinner is bad for your digestion.

Charlie led me to his desk. Folding chairs had been set up beside the desks, and I surveyed the crowd as they dutifully sat themselves in these metal, fabric-unfriendly monstrosities. A counter ran along the windows Charlie's desk sat next to, and as any thinking person would, wearing anything that meant anything to them, I sat on that.

The idea was to run through a typical day at school. The teacher was blathering, and something was poking me. There should be nothing poking me. I shifted as one of the girls said, 'math'. The poking stopped. I examined the counter, but it was smooth. Blah, blah, the teacher was talking fractions. I settled back, and the poking resumed. It was some something in a pocket. I felt. Cards. I looked. Cue cards. I sighed. That would be Doris. It must have worried her I'd forget what the Buckets wanted me to ask, and I guess the Buckets had told her, in time for her to make them. Such a big Factory, yet so little faith. I peeked at one. Arithmetic. Heck. They were talking about maths. Close enough. I raised my hand.

 _"That's right!" Mrs. Hoffsteader said. "This quarter, we've been learning about fractions, and I . . . yes, Mr. Wonka?"_

I took out the card, and read.

 _"I need to find out how Charlie is doing in arithmetic… His parents have been studying with him every night, but his last test still showed some room for improvement."_

What was I thinking? Charlie was cowering at his desk, his ears like beets, the class was laughing, and Mrs. Hoffsteader, having given me the floor, gave me the brush off. Later, she said. And she was right. There was no reason to talk about Charlie's work in front of everyone, and I, for one, should know that. I'd just done a similar thing to the good doctor, and he hated it. Why shouldn't Charlie? I chalked it up to a symptom of Subtle Incapacitation on my part, brought on, no doubt, by this hostile environment.

Watching Charlie take his maths workbook from his desk, I determined to dig my way out of my embarrassment with a discussion of creativity, thereby managing only to dig the hole deeper. His teacher's scolding—this was school all right—rescued me. At her command we two be quiet, I more than gladly let drop the proverbial shovel. And then, confound it, having told us not to talk, she told us to talk… Told all of us to talk. About a fractions problem… Hey! Maybe we could talk about sweetness ratios! I _was_ getting _some_ work done here, the taste-test, and maybe I could get some more… But no, this problem was gonna be about an apple.

 _"Okay," Charlie said. "If Susan cuts her apple into six pieces, and she gives one piece to Robert and two pieces to Mary, how many thirds of an apple will Violet have left?"_

"Violet? Who's Violet? I thought Susan had the apple. Is a Beauregarde on the brain bothering you?"

Chagrined, Charlie shook his head, but I nodded mine. I could tell. It was affecting him too… Subtle Incapacition.

"Sorry, I mean Susan."

Moving on, I wrinkled my nose. It's a trick question, best forgotten in favor of the entertaining story.

 _"Why on earth would any child want to eat an apple?"_

 _"Pretend it's not an apple," Charlie said quickly. "Maybe it's a chocolate bar."_

 _"All right,"_ I _said. "So Susan cuts her chocolate bar into six pieces . . . no, that would never work. Look at that picture of Susan. She doesn't look the type to share a chocolate bar. A selfish girl if ever I saw one. We'd better say it's an apple after all. People are always trying to get rid of apples. Just look at that snake incident. What was the question again, Charlie?"_

 _But at the front of the classroom, Mrs. Hoffsteader was saying, "Who has an answer?"_

 _"Exactly one-third of an apple," Timmy's father said stiffly._

That would be Dr. Digestive Tract, grabbing again for the limelight. I stuck up my finger, but at Charlie's imploring look, I lowered it again. Six minus one minus two equals three, and unless the mysterious Violet absconded with one of the apple pieces, Susan still has three pieces left. That's one more piece than exactly one-third, which is equivalent to two-sixths, not three-sixths. Strictly speaking, expressed the way the question wanted the answer expressed, Susan has one and a-half thirds left, and isn't _that_ needlessly confusing for this level. I told ya. It's a trick question.

 _"Well done!" Mrs. Hoffsteader said._

I'm hoping she's saying that in the interest of moving this along, but I can't be the only one here who knows Dr. Medical-Journal has it wrong. I looked around, stowing the cue card, but the rest of them were sitting quietly, like ewws. Ewes. Unimpressed, I rolled my eyes behind my goggles, but otherwise let it go.

 _Now let's move onto our next subject. Ralph, what do we do every day after math?"_

As mind-numbing as doing the same thing, at the same time, day-in and day-out sounded, I couldn't wait to find out.

* * *

 _Thank you reviewers, thank you: your words truly make my day. Thank you also to those of you who have favorited and followed. I do not own_ Family Night, _or_ Charlie and the Chocolate Factory— _in any of its many forms—and there is no copyright infringement intended._


	3. Art

_My thanks to Piscaria for allowing this use of her work. In the places I have included her work directly, I have used italics._

 _To those of you who have read this and left reviews: thank you, thank you. I love 'em. Favs and follows rock as well._ _I do not own_ Family Night, _or_ Charlie and the Chocolate Factory— _in any of its many forms—and there is no copyright infringement intended._

* * *

I couldn't wait to find out, because 'next' meant being one subject closer to blowing this pop-stand, and high-tailing it back to the Factory.

 _"Geography," Ralph said._

Ah! Geography! I like that. The Great Glass Elevator makes that easy. I've been just about everywhere. Tired of sitting, I strolled over to the map of the world Charlie's teacher was gushing over. Name the five oceans. Easy-peasy, sail 'em and get queasy.

'Course on closer inspection, I saw the map was wrong. Having had enough inaccuracy for one night, I scowled at the seas of lines and colors. There was no point raising my hand, only to be brushed off, so I flat out announced the map was wrong. It omitted Loompaland. For my trouble, I was informed there _is_ no Loompaland, which is insufferable, because I _have_ Oompa-Loompas, _from_ Loompaland, _working_ in my Factory. And that reality made no difference, _at all_ , in this room. Charlie knew I was right. My point was made. This school was a waste of time.

 _"I can see that I'm going to have to add geography tutoring to your weekly lessons, Charlie. You obviously won't learn anything of value_ here _."_

That news got the old hen's hackles up—and I heard the Newt girl gasp—but Charlie ignored all of it, diving into naming the five oceans again, with Teach going right along with him. Only a little miffed, I sauntered back to the counter, and leaned against it, smugly waiting out the clock. I'd shown 'em, and with my chin in the air, I truly felt fine, until I felt Charlie's eyes upon me.

I was being measured, and as long as it was taking, I was coming up short. Why? I was right, and they were wrong. I thought it over. Glanced back at the map. Thought about this room, and this school… This school that didn't make it on to _my_ map. Thought about Mrs. Bucket, back at the Factory, and her opinion of my opinion of this travesty. Thought about Mrs. Bucket, encouraging me to come… to take the Great Glass Elevator. About Charlie's being primed for disappointment. Who did _that_? One? Some? All? Me? Her? There was a disconnect working. Charlie was stuck here, and I was stirring the pot. I glanced at Charlie. Caught him staring. It wasn't pleasant. I wonder if he wonders if I'm on his side? Before he could turn away, I smiled a small smile.

" _I am trying, Charlie."_

" _I know," said Charlie,_ trying _to sound like he meant it. "We're almost done now."_

Charlie turned back to the class, and I turned away, musing. I'd made a play on words Charlie was too young to understand. Charlie answered the one way of looking at it, but I meant the other. That was okay. His answer covered both meanings, and we soldiered on.

Art was next. I was surprised they allowed it. It smacks of creativity. And goody, goody gum-drops, Teach billed it as last! Charlie tugged on my sleeve, and we made our way to the back of the room, where the class projects—paintings draped with opaque cloths—were set up. By now, my novelty had mostly worn off, particularly as it was evident my 'plays well with others' score was somewhere south—well south—of a four point zero, and with the Mums' and Dads' interest in their own children eclipsing us, we were left pretty much to ourselves. As Grandpa Joe would say, 'Yipee!'

Which made Charlie's behavior perplexing. He'd squirmed with happiness at his desk when Art was announced, but the closer we got to his work, the more he squirmed with anxiety. It wasn't concern for me… there was no one near us. Then he removed the cloth, as the other children were doing, and I saw the portrait he'd painted. It was of me. Me. And it was good. With a clever turn of brushstrokes, he'd captured the spirit of the moment he'd chosen: the gleam in my eye, and slight curl to my lips that I do while I enjoy the anticipation of the full blown smile I know I'm going to put on my face, in just another second. Either that, or giggle. And with just the right tilt to my head. I'd have spoken, but seeing it, whatever I was feeling in my chest, didn't leave room for words.

I circled the painting, looking at it from every angle, waiting for the ability for speech to return. It was slow. And with the painting revealed, I was feeling the scrutiny again. Not from Charlie, from the others. From all the others. And this time, Charlie was sharing the scrutiny with me. There was pity in those looks, and scorn. Pity for Charlie, that he be so fanciful. Scorn for me, that I wore dark lenses to hide Charlie's lie. But right back at cha, turkeys… I weary of being told the color of my eyes. It's amazing to me the number of people who meet me, and think I don't know. They never fail to tell me. But, da-dit, dit-da—this just in—by now, I'm pretty familiar with it. For years I'd thought the color as common as any other. It never came up, while my father was home-schooling me… It wasn't until he got too busy, poking into people's mouths, and trundled me off to a place like this place, that I discovered otherwise.

I took off the dark goggles I'd worn till now to fend off the nuisance advisories, and eyes wide open, I took my time surveying the lot of them. Charlie's credibility was at stake. Some stared back, but most, seeing Charlie's lie was truth, ducked their heads. A few female hands went to cover open mouths. A few of the men gawked. Dr. Medical-Journals-Tell-Me-Everything turned away. This color may not have made it into the medical journals yet. Some of the children giggled with delight. It helped me find my voice. Charlie's amethyst was spot on.

 _"Why is that . . . is that me?"_

I was as lame as the rubes, but Charlie was waiting, looking like his stomach was in knots, and that's all I could manage. I knew it was me. Charlie came back disparaging.

 _"It's not very good."_

 _"My dear boy, it's fabulous! …_ _It's perfect!"_

 _"Really?"_

Charlie was blinking and breathing in ways that said he didn't dare hope to believe I meant it. But I did, and this is where touch, dreaded or not, gets it done like nothing else. The gawkers forgotten, with all my attention on Charlie, I swung him 'round by his shoulders, to view the portrait together, hanging on, as speech fully back, I became effusive about the art in his future I saw at the Factory. I felt him stand taller under my hands, his thin shoulders held proudly back. It was worth it.

But exuberance is loathed in a place like this, and for not the first time this evening, mine was quashed.

 _"Mr. Wonka," Mrs. Hoffsteader interrupted, "I'm glad that you like Charlie's art project, but I still need to tell everybody about our reading assignments."_

Don't you 'Mr. Wonka' me, dear fish! You asked Melissa Barnes to tell everybody what the _last_ subject was, and she said 'Art'. Now you say 'Reading'. Does the meaning of 'last' escape your itsy-bitsy pea-pod sized brain? Perhaps you'd like to attend this school, and learn it? Too bad, so sad, you do attend, you teach here, and heavens! you haven't. Not much of a recommendation.

But I didn't say any of that out loud. This evening, in this room, I was remembering what school had been like. Having left it behind, like boots a size or two too small, I hadn't thought about the strategies for surviving it, for years. But I was booting myself up with them now. Like a stampede. Censoring was one. Acquiescence was another.

" _Oh,"_ I said. _"Okay then."_

I took the portrait with me back to Charlie's desk and propped it up on the window where I could see it, taking my seat on the counter next to it. And that was that. I had nothing more to say to these people. They had nothing to offer me, and they wanted nothing I had to offer them. That's the way it is in a school like this. What was it Charlie had said earlier? _"We're not supposed to be creative at school. We're here to learn."_ Yeah. The fact they didn't know the one went hand-in-hand with the other, was sickening.

I looked at the painting. I'd learned something here tonight. I'd learned Charlie was an artist. I suppose the school would want points for that, but they weren't gonna get any. I'd have figured that out myself at the Factory, and probably would have already, if Mrs. Bucket didn't insist on prioritizing _this_ curriculum, over mine. Here, it wouldn't be long before they were telling Charlie he was doing his painting wrong.

The evening dragged on through the reading lesson. I was adept at avoiding the surreptitious glances that were thrown my way, and I'm sure they thought me oblivious to their making them. But I knew. It was another of the old survival skills. All of them, even Charlie, were thrilled they'd muzzled the genius among them, but to make him happy, I'd play along. I didn't blame Charlie for his relief. This wasn't the world, but Charlie couldn't know that. Right now, this _was his world_. Ninety percent of it. He hadn't been alive long enough to know that this shrine to obedience and conformity wouldn't even amount to a fourth of his life. If you're trapped here—creatively, intellectually, beyond this crowd—you make it through by doing your work, and keeping your head down.

Keeping your head down… I'd done it for me, then, and I'd do it for Charlie, now. The nail that sticks out gets hammered, and this wasn't the place to stick out. Getting hammered here wasn't worth it. But Charlie's dive for the oceans… There was the worry, niggling at me, like the poking corner of that cue card. There are people who crave this path, this treadmill, this conformity. I stole a glance at Crawford. They live for it, defend it, crush its enemies. That would be me. Charlie might be one of them. I'd find that out. Later... Sooner... Some time after he's had more of a chance to compare my world with this.

I studied the portrait again. It gave me hope. Even here, the spark of Charlie's creativity shone through. We had that in common. Try as they would to crush it, it would still be there when he left this place. Mine had survived, and I trusted his would, too.

 _"So glad to meet you," Mrs. Hoffsteader said again, forcing a smile that looked almost real._

I found myself standing. Oh, wow, we're leaving? When did that happen? The hand was out again, and I fell back on acting, and shook it.

" _Yes,"_ I _said. "You also."_

Yetch. I gave up on the acting strategy years ago. With as many innovative ideas as I have, reclusiveness is easier. Too much acting is not conducive to knowing who you are, and the constant convincing of skeptics saps your energy.

"Juice and cookies, Charlie?" I said brightly, as I turned away. Any excuse to put distance between this skeptic, and her almost smile. Almost smiles don't fool me. I invented them. And then I saw Charlie's clouded face, and registered his hesitation. Charlie didn't want me to stay! Charlie… disappointed if I didn't go, disappointed if I did. This _was_ a trick, and I'd almost fallen for it. I turned back.

"Mrs. Hoffsteader!"

She turned back, and I leaned in and grasped her hand in mine, my other hand on her forearm, at her wrist—like a politician—and I shook her hand like mad, my eyes gazing deeply into hers, my smile a wreath upon my face.

"I'm terribly sorry about that Loompaland outburst! Dear me, I'm afraid for a minute I had a Galileo moment going on. Can you ever forgive me?"

She smiled like a little girl in a candy store, and I dropped her hand to clasp mine together in supplication. My 'almost' is so much more real than her 'almost', and I'm practically irresistible when I do this. Charlie's eyes were like saucers, and Mrs. Hoffsteader was breathless. She put a hand to her bosom.

"Galileo?"

I stepped back with a smile.

"Galileo."

She hadn't a clue, but she needn't admit that.

"Well, then, of course I must. Thank you, Mr. Wonka."

On with the show. I bowed my head, and jauntily tapped the brim of my hat.

"No, my dear lady, thank you! Charlie?"

Charlie was holding the painting, beaming at his teacher's happiness, and handing him my walking-stick, I took the painting from him, holding it with both hands.

"I'll carry this. You'll have to take it when we get to the Great Glass, but for now, it's mine."

Mrs. Hoffsteader was watching with approval, as well she should. I wasn't acting. Charlie and I turned to go.

"Mr. Wonka?"

I turned back. I'd sown the seed, perhaps the flower was already blossoming.

"I saw your hand go up at the end of fractions." She glanced nervously at Dr. Crawford, who was pontificating across the room amongst a group of worshippers, before whispering, "I know he was wrong, it was a half, not a third, and I know you know now I know…"

This was great. She was winning me over.

"…but he's the school board's darling. He's very generous where the school is concerned, and offending him with facts is not without its dangers. Thanks for not making an issue of it."

I couldn't resist the confidence, or the nod to the pitfalls of money. I giggled, and my smile turned genuine. Charlie was politely not listening—or pretending not to, I couldn't tell—so maybe he didn't know what this was about, but he was so pleased I was pleased—he _could_ tell that—he joined in, and so did Mrs. Hoffsteader.

"And aren't you the clever fundraiser?" I allowed, with a sparkle in my eye. "You should be the school board's darling. I'll make sure you are. I dare say with my newfound interest in Charlie, the school he attends shall lack for nothing it reasonably needs."

His teacher sighed.

"I shouldn't say this, but with that man no longer the only game in town, it will be a relief to be out from under Timmy's father's thumb. With the budget cuts we've faced, he's got this school in a straitjacket."

"Umm, well, skipping straight away from straitjackets, and speaking of thumbs, I have this chocolate bar under my thumb. Give it to Timmy, if, in your judgement, an appropriate moment ever materializes. His father gypped him earlier."

She took it.

"Or eat it yourself. It's quite fresh. I only shrunk it this morning."

"Shrunk it?"

"We better go, Mr. Wonka."

I laughed at Charlie. He was right. Delirious with acceptance, I was skating dangerously close to blabbing Factory secrets, and from across the room, Meds-R-Me was giving us the stink-eye. Way too much giggling going on. Tsk! Tsk! Whoever—wherever—did we think we were? It didn't take a genius to know that any minute now, he'd be relocating to this locale, to hog the spotlight.

"Before you go, Mr. Wonka, parents want to know these things… Charlie is doing well in all his subjects. Maths are his weakest, but he's improving steadily—perhaps you could help him—all his work is at or above grade level—even maths—and although he keeps to himself, he has no problems with the other children. Tell his parents Charlie's concentration is greatly improved, and that's made a huge difference."

I nodded, knowing I'd tell them the rest, but also knowing I wouldn't tell them that. My palms still held the memory of Charlie's thin shoulders. It was enough the food Charlie was getting now was making a difference. Let the difference speak for itself. The past wouldn't pass if the Buckets were reminded of it all the time, and for my own reasons, I wanted that past buried.

"Thank you, I will."

Acting.

"Shall we?"

With as much practice as I'd had this evening, I'd have held out my hand to Charlie, but both were filled with portrait. Mrs. Hoffsteader had left us to head off the approaching, determinedly on-a-mission, Dr. Crawford.

Charlie nodded, smiling a smile of happiness that told me _he_ had no words.

As we passed the cafeteria, with the briefest glance, Charlie and I agreed that the cookies and juice at the Factory tasted best, and having agreed, proceeded apace along the fluorescent, disinfected corridor to the exit. With a hiss, the door clicked shut behind us, and with that sound, heady relief flowed through my veins. I could have crowed. I almost did.

"I hope, dear Charlie, when we get home, you will, without fail, tell your mother what a lovely time we had this evening."

"Oh, I will, Mr. Wonka," Charlie assured me, breathlessly. "I'll tell everyone!"

Good. The spies in my Factory may have blindsided me—I do tend to get wrapped up in my own little world… just ask the sides of the Great Glass Elevator… and my face and shoulders, for that matter—but there is no need to let that happen to me a second time.

"Mr. Wonka? What did you mean when you said you had a Galileo moment?"

Willy, that would be.

"Have I shown you my library, Charlie?"

"No."

I looked down at him, looking up at me. Even if too tall, the walking-stick suited him.

"No? Dear me! How silly. I'll take you there, tomorrow, with your Mum, and you can look him up together. Then you'll see."

"Like homework," Charlie shrugged.

I laughed.

"Yes, like homework, but there's no grade, and no deadline. I'll show you my library tomorrow, but you don't have to look him up tomorrow. Do it when you feel like it, or not at all."

"But you're not going to tell me?"

"Nah, it's a trick, and not very nice. I don't think your teacher knows much about Galileo, either. Sometimes I'm a real stinker. It's better if you look him up yourself, and when you do, you may want to keep what you find to yourself. At least about how what happened to him, sorta happened to me—not as bad—when I talked about Loompaland tonight."

Thinking over what I'd said, Charlie studied the tips of his shoes moving over the dirt of the playground, a smile waxing and waning on his lips. If I'm a chocolatier—and I am—he'll know all about Galileo getting into big—and I mean _seriously_ big—trouble, for claiming the Earth revolves around the Sun—a reality Galileo was entirely right about—by tomorrow night. Reaching the Great Glass Elevator, I studied Charlie's painting again, before handing it back. I'd need my hands for the control buttons, but I didn't want to end the evening on homework, or foreign astronomers. I wanted to end it on Charlie _._

" _You have a real gift..."_

Charlie listened, tired from the evening, but thrilled.

" _You really think so?"_

" _I do,"_ I _said. "You have an artist's touch, my_ dear _boy, and that is something that will prove invaluable..."_

When we were safely in, I touched a few buttons, and the Great Glass Elevator lifted into the night sky to take us home. Galileo's sky. My sky. Charlie's sky.

" _I'm glad you came with me,"_ Charlie _said suddenly._

Thinking of which world he'd ultimately prefer, I glanced at him sideways, smiling with a hint of shyness.

" _So am I, Charlie."_

* * *

 _The End_


End file.
